


A Different Call

by Shadowpool95



Series: ADC Universe [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, fury does not, how Clint and Natasha met, it wouldnt be Clintasha with out that, obviously they hate each other at first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-17 13:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2311076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowpool95/pseuds/Shadowpool95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The words from the file had already burned themselves into his brain.<br/>Name: the Black Widow;<br/>Status: High Risk;<br/>Termination: Pending.<br/>...and that was it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first installment in a very long (or so i have planned) series of Avengers stories and oneshots. And they actually will work with canon. Well, as much as I can. I _may_ tweak a few things.  
>  Mainly Clintasha centered because why not, but there will obviously be other pairings later on. But as of this story, Clint and Natasha don't even know each other. Which is okay, because i plan on being in this for the long haul.  
> Also I apologize for the short-ish chapters. They should get longer. Eventually.

The words from the file had already burned themselves into his brain.

Name: Black Widow  
Status: High Risk  
Termination: Pending

...and that was it. Well, except for a grainy picture of a shadowy blur, which was definitely not the best S.H.I.E.L.D. could do. However, Clint Barton was not disappointed. The lack of provided details just meant he’d have to go looking for his own. Which was always entertaining, to say the least.

The archer slid his bow out of its case and slung it onto his back, next to his well-stocked quiver.

He had been called in by his handler with a new mission early yesterday morning. No audience with the Director. No flashy entrance. Not even a pep talk. Agent Coulson had handed him a thin file and a passport, and told him that he was headed to Prague.

Getting there was no problem, thanks to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s ready supply of transport. Once there, he scouted out a crappy, nondescript hotel with a free room. Then he did some reconnaissance.

The Black Widow was a rogue assassin. He’d heard rumors of her work through the underground before he teamed with S.H.I.E.L.D., but not many specific details. And not much more came up through his questioning, even though he spent the night in some of the sleaziest bars known to mankind. The only thing that he found, after a bit of bribery, was the location of her next mark. “A tall bloke,” the guy told him. “With ‘eh goatee. Not much to ‘em, but ‘e’s sure got the ladies ‘ight under ‘is thumb, dun’he?” There was a gala being held at one of the high-end hotels in the richer part of Prague, and one of its guests had pissed off the wrong people.

So here he was, changing from Clint Barton to Hawkeye with the simple addition of his bow.

Hawkeye headed out, avoiding the streets in favor of the rooftops.

.:.:.:.

Hordes of women passed by, four stories below. Hawkeye was crouched on the top of a building barely a block away from the luxury hotel. He swiftly scanned over each one, fully aware that the Black Widow would be camouflaged in amongst the most posh of them. That is, if her skills were as legendary as her reputation claimed.

_She could be any one of these women,_ Hawkeye thought to himself, running his fingers over the bow he had cradled in his lap. But only one of them had a death wish. And yet, his observations caused him to dismiss almost every woman he came across. That one was too old. As was that one. And she was coloured; the Widow was white. And her? A bit too overweight, if you were to ask him.

It wasn’t until halfway through the night, when the flow of arriving guests had decreased to an almost stopping point, that anything happened. A couple exited the hotel via the front door, the woman considerably more drunk than the man. She had long, wavy blonde hair and was sporting a mid-thigh-length, midnight blue dress. Her companion was tall but bland looking, and obviously rich. And he had a goatee. He led her over to the valet, but the woman had something else in mind. She tugged on his arm, saying to him something that Hawkeye could only guess at from this distance. The blond stumbled down the street and the guy quickly followed, laughing.

Hawkeye watched their every move as they brought themselves closer to his vantage point, then right past it. He glanced back at the hotel, then, leaping from roof to roof of the closely-built buildings, followed the pair.

It didn’t take long. Three blocks from the hotel, the man became impatient. He told the woman so, motioning back the way they had came. He had a car and could take them anywhere she wanted. Hawkeye, from two stories above them, grimaced. _Yeah,_ he added silently. _Like his bedroom._

The woman offered him a coy smile. She grabbed his shirt collar and dragged him into a dead-end alley while Hawkeye notched an arrow and drew his bow. One wrong move and she was going to become a pin cushion. But he had to be sure it was her.

He watched them, barely breathing. The man had the woman pinned against the wall, his face buried in her neck. Hawkeye had a clear view of them right down the shaft of his arrow. The woman’s expression changed from ‘pleasured’ to something else entirely with an almost audible ‘bang’ in less than a second. Hawkeye tensed his arms, drawing his bow more taunt. It wasn’t until the man dropped to the ground that he realized the bang _had_ been audible.

Coulson would _not_ be happy about that. Hawkeye pointed his bow at the Black Widow, ready to loose his arrow. But, he didn’t. Because he was puzzled. He hadn’t yet taken careful note of what expression her face now held. However, as he watched her more closely, he instantly recognized it: Regret. What was a cold-hearted assassin doing feeling regret? Or feeling anything for that matter.

But the regret was gone in another heartbeat when the Black Widow smothered her feelings under a stone-cold mask. Hawkeye lowered his bow by mere inches, familiar with the tactic. How many times had he done the very same thing? The archer looked at the assassin more carefully as his mind reeled.

What had Coulson said? That she needs to be ‘taken care of’ because she’s ‘extremely dangerous’? Hawkeye shrugged, an action of reflex. Those terms could be taken relatively. “I can live with that,” he said quietly to himself.

The Black Widow, crouching to confirm the death of her victim, froze as the softly spoken words reached her ears.

In a snap decision, Clint Barton drew back his bow and let go of his arrow.


	2. Chapter 2

The arrow flew past the Black Widow’s head, parting the air with a muffled whistle until it embedded itself in the cracked wall behind her. Clint didn’t wait for her to react. As soon as the arrow left his hold, the archer slung his bow over his shoulder and leapt off the building. He landed on a fire escape, flipped over the railing and dropped to the ground. Five feet away, the Black Widow had her gun aimed at his head. This was going better than he had expected.

“Хорошиедвижения,для покойника,” she snarled smoothly, her tone as level as her weapon. ( _Nice moves, for a dead man._ )

Clint slowly raised his hand above his head to show that he had no ready attack while, silently, he cursed himself. She was a Russian spy. Why did he assume she would understand him?

“Do you speak English?” he asked out loud. If she didn’t, this would be hard. He hadn’t taken the initiative to learn anything past entry-level Russian.

The Black Widow’s stance didn’t waver. “Почему?Планированиеразговариватьменя до смерти?”( _Why? Planning on talking me to death?_ )

Clint tried again, in broken Russian. “Английский язык.Вы говорите по-английски?”( _English. Do you speak English?_ )

“иногда,” she said with narrowed eyes, the ghost of a smirk on her lips. “Но этоне ваше дело.” ( _Sometimes,_ ) ( _But that’s none of your business._ )

He recognized a bit of what she said, courtesy of the small amount of language training he _had_ received, but she was talking too fast for him to follow completely. However, the cheekily-spoke ‘sometimes’ stuck out.

“Can you speak in English _now_?” Clint took an extremely cautious step forward, his hands still raised. “I want to talk. Just talk.”

The Black Widow tensed, a finger curling around the trigger of her pistol. Her body language told her adversary not to move another muscle, but something in her eyes, however briefly, sparked, Giving Clint the sign he had wanted. Regardless, her face was still empty of any emotion, even as her voice held contempt. “Вы, американцы, и ваше желание поговорить. У государства даже не знаю, как для надлежащей подготовки убийц больше?” ( _You Americans and your wish to talk. Do the states not even know how to train proper assassins anymore?_ )

“That’s not English.” In one swift movement Clint swung his leg up, kicking her gun from her hand. Just as the weapon clattered to the ground, a fist connected with his jaw, followed by a bare foot to the other side of his face. _That’s going to leave a mark_ , he thought as he stumbled backwards, regaining his balance. He rubbed the side of his jaw as he brought his gaze back to the Black Widow.

She was set into a defensive semi-crouch, her strappy high-heels abandoned to the side. She shifted her stance, edging closer to her weapon.

_This seems like a lot more trouble than it’s worth._ Clint leapt forward, a fist balled and aiming for her face. The Black Widow slipped out of his way and around him, kicking out one of his knees from behind. Clint’s legs buckled and he fell, turning it into a neatly executed forwards roll before bouncing back to his feet. The two assassins gazed at each other, eyes sharp and jaws set.

The Black Widow took to the offensive and lunged at Clint. He blocked the majority of her skillfully-aimed blows, landing a few of his own in the process. He wasn’t aware that the steps backwards he was being forced to take were completely intentional until the blonde assassin dropped into a low crouch and fluidly swung a leg around to swipe his from underneath him. Lying on his back at the bottom of the alley, Clint summarized that she had pushed him back far enough to reach her gun; she was crouched over him, the pistol pressed to his neck.

A sluggish trickle of blood ran from the Black Widow’s nose down her upper lip, and Clint was sure one of her punches had split open a bit of skin on his forehead, but they both ignored their minor injuries and glared at each other straight in the eyes.

“You won’t kill me,” Clint told her, his voice steady even though his breathing was mildly ragged.

“Да?” The Black Widow’s eyes were as hard as flint. “What makes you so sure?” She pressed the gun harder against his throat. ( _Yeah?_ )

Clint hid his surprise at her almost accent-free English. “Because you’re curious.” He swallowed. “You want to know exactly _what_ I want to talk about.”

There was a pause. “…And if I’m not?”

Clint flashed a smirk and glanced up at the wall above him. Lodged in a crack was a simple looking black arrow. The Black Widow made to follow his gaze, and that’s when Clint made his move.

The archer pressed a nearly invisible button on one of his wrist guards with the thumb of his opposite hand. Almost instantly, a minor explosion went off above their heads. He bucked the assassin off of him as the alleyway began to fill with smoke.

Clint jumped to his feet. “Just because I didn’t kill you tonight, doesn’t mean someone else won’t tomorrow,” he called quietly through the haze, knowing that she could hear him. The barely-there sounds of the assassin collecting her weapon and shoes reached his ears. “I can offer you an out,” he continued, his voice hard. “Not safety. A purpose.”

With the bait dangling, Hawkeye exited the alley the way he had entered it. He didn’t expect the Black Widow to follow him, nor did she. From the rooftop, he couldn’t spot her anywhere. But the look he had seem ignite in her eyes was as familiar to him as the feel of his bow. She would find him, and maybe he wouldn’t have to kill her.

Clint ran a hand across his stinging forehead. It came back coated with blood. “God damnit,” he grumbled as he headed back to his hotel room via the rooftops. “She did split my head open.”


	3. Chapter 3

“You did _what_?”

Clint almost dropped his cell phone at Coulson’s sharp words. He had it wedged between his ear and shoulder so his hands would be free to suture up the gash on his forehead. As it was he pulled the stitch he was working on a little too tight.

“Ow! You know, a normal person would react this way if I _did_ kill someone.”

Judging by the silence his handler wasn’t amused. Clint tied off the last stitch and admired his handy work in the grubby hole-in-the-wall hotel mirror, trying to ignore the room’s equally grubby hole-in-the-wall smell.

“You had one job, Barton. Find her and take her down.”

“Technically sir, that’s two jobs.”

On the other end of the line Coulson sighed. “Too much for you to handle?”

Clint put away his medical kit. “No sir.” He ran a hand through his still shower-damp hair. “But I don’t see why we’ve given up on her”

“Given up on her?” A note of confusion crept into Coulson’s voice.

“Does she have any less of a right to a second chance?” he clarified, his tone purposely business-like.

The reply came in a clipped tone. “That’s not your call, Barton.”

“The hell it’s not.” Clint’s words were level and emotionless, giving nothing away.

His handler’s words began to sound text-book. “She is a level 10 threat. Only Director Fury can make that call.”

“Then talk to the Director.”

“That’s more trouble than it’s worth. You are border-line probation as it is Barton. You have your orders-”

“Isn’t SHIELD supposed to be _saving_ lives?” Clint cut him off.

The weight of those words hung in the air. Clint stared at himself in the mirror, impatiently waiting for his handler’s response. When it was obvious none was coming, he added, “She wouldn’t be the first assassin SHIELD…” his tone became bitter. Not towards the organization, nor Coulson. Maybe not even towards himself. “Reeducated.” The word slid over his tongue, as sour as a lie.

The silence that followed was so thick that Clint began to think Coulson had dropped the call.

“Give me the day,” his handler finally said in a quiet tone. “I’ll take it up with the Director. Do not move from your position, Barton. Do not engage the target with either outcome in mind. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” Clint responded.

“Good. Coulson out.”

The line went dead, and Clint took that as his cue to attempt to get some sleep. There was nothing else he could do anyway, might as well rest when he was able. He snapped his phone shut and moved his bow and quiver to the bedside table.

Though he was certain the Black Widow would find him, it wouldn’t be tonight. Or, rather, early this morning; the digital clock told him it was well past oh-two-hundred. He suspected the assassin was off collecting the bounty her latest kill had hanging over his successful murder.

As he got into the less-than-neatly made bed, Clint thought back to the time before SHIELD, when he had been living from hit to hit. It had been difficult. Rough. But looking back now, he could only remember the uncertainty and the guilt. Not knowing if the guy he was taking out actually deserved it, but doing the job anyways.

Clint looked at his hands in the dark, imagining them dripping with the blood of all the innocents he’d killed. But the nightmares had lessened since he joined SHIELD. They only asked from him the deaths of those who truly deserved it. If he could save someone who didn’t, give them the second chance, the purpose, that he had been given, he would make that call.

.:.:.:.

“To Black Widow, tak brzy?” ( _The Black Widow, back so soon?_ )

The assassin shouldered off the two guards who escorted her in. “Jávímlépe,“ she purred in fluent Czech as she boldly faced the man who had hired her, “nežabyčlověkjako vyčekat.“ ( _I know better, than to keep a man such as yourself waiting._ ) She pulled a paper-wrapped object out of one of the back pockets of her jeans and set it on the table in front of him.

Kašpar laughed darkly, harshly, carefully unwrapping the prize. "Když jste byli doporučuje pro práci. měl jsem pochybnosti, ale zdá se, že znáte obchod docela dobře.“ ( _When you were recommended for the job, I had my doubts, but it seems you know the trade quite well._ ) He held up the thick gold chain with two fingers, the charm on the end glittering in the faint light. “Doufám, že jste neměl ne problémy.“ ( _I trust you had no problems._ )

The blonde’s fingers twitched, itching to touch the butt of the pistol she had tucked in her jeans. But she stood still, showing off a cocky smile.“Nic, co bychnezvládl.“ ( _Nothing I couldn’t handle._ )

“Dobrý.“ ( _Good._ ) He motioned to his thugs. The taller one slid an emvalope out of his coat and handed it to his boss, who held it out to the Black Widow. “Vaše platba.“ ( _Your payment._ )

Opening the emvalope, she growled. “To je sotva polovina toho, co jsi mi slíbil.“ ( _This is barely half of what you promised._ )

Kašpar looked at her, his eyes glittering with cold malice. “Věci se mění. Jakmile je taková jako jste vy musí vědět, že.“ ( _Things change. Once such as yourself must know that._ )

The assassin held his gaze, allowing her irritation to show through only as a tight smirk. “Samozřejmě, Kašpar.“ ( _Of course, Kašpar._ ) He was not going to get away with this.

.:.:.:.

It wasn’t until the sun reached its highest point in the sky that Clint woke up. He slid easily out of sleep, the product of years of practice and habit. He sat up, yawned, and stretched before remembering he was ‘grounded’ in almost every sense of the word. He lay back heavily, grunting as his head hit the pillow.

The archer knew he was being ‘punished’ because SHIELD didn’t like anyone screwing up their plans. He _should_ know, he’s done it enough. However, a small part of him felt like his punishment was for trying to save a life. But that was absurd. His suspicions about the organization had always been unfounded and eventually proven wrong. Maybe it was time he started listening to them.

Still… that didn’t seem appropriate with the current situation. His instincts had saved his life on more than one occasion. Why couldn’t they help someone else now?

Clint sat up once again, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “They can’t stop me from getting breakfast,” he said out loud. “Or lunch,” he tacked on as an afterthought with a glance at the clock. If Coulson really expected him to hang around his hotel room all day he was nuts.

The archer got up and shuffled through his duffel, pulling out a gray t-shirt and jeans. He couldn’t exactly walk around the streets of Prague in his SHEILD uniform in broad daylight.

Civilian clothes on, Clint slipped a pistol into his belt and covered it with his shirt. His bow would be a bit ostentatious and bulky. No hiding it. If only he could get one that could fold down. A collapsible bow. Wouldn’t that be the cat’s pajamas?

With a shake of his head he grabbed his wallet, which held a fake passport, fake id, and some money, and headed out the door.

 

His meal took the form of spicy goulash and a pint of beer as Clint himself under took the role of an unassuming tourist. The restaurant he picked was an authentic Czech joint called U Vejvodů. It wasn’t far from the Old Town Square and the Market Place where he was headed.

Coulson had ordered him not to engage the Black Widow, but he had said nothing about not making it easier for her to engage _him_. And he figured the Old Town Market was public enough to convince either of them to not make too much of a scene.

He wasn’t expecting her to pop up out of nowhere and ask questions, but it wasn’t until he was standing up to leave that anything of interest caught his eye. He had been people-watching and scoping out the place throughout his meal, but had somehow overlooked the slender, wavy-haired blonde sitting almost in the center of the restaurant. But perhaps that had been exactly how he had missed her. He had expected her, whenever he saw her, to be sitting at the edge of the room, back against a wall. It was safer.

Apparently, though, that’s exactly what she had expected him to think.

_Hiding in plain sight,_ Clint thought grudgingly. _Clever._

He didn’t let his gaze rest on her for any span of time, not wanting the assassin to realize she had been spotted. Instead he kept her form in his peripherals, nodded his head to the hostess, and handed the waiter a tip. The blur that was the Black Widow got up as he walked out the door.

.:.:.:.

There. He saw her. He gave no visible signs, but his eyes had trailed over her position for the briefest of moments. Any good mercenary would have instantly spotted and memorized every one of the faces in the place. And now he saw her. And, if her instincts were correct, which they usually were, her position would have thrown him off of any possibility that she _wanted_ him to know she was there.

Which was exactly what she was doing.

If he knew she was there, he would underestimate her abilities. He would be lulled into a false sense of security by her ever-present presence. He would eventually approach her, and then assume that he was calling the shots. That _he_ had the leading role in the conversation that was unavoidable. Inevitable. The conversation that she almost wanted to have.

The Black Widow cursed herself as she got up to follow him. She was _curious_. God damn _him_ , and his speaking of ‘out’s. She wondered, not for the first time, why he had to be such an incompetent assassin and couldn’t just do his job and kill her. Because death would be better than this burning curiosity. She hated _wanting_ to know something almost as much as she hated _not_ knowing something. Something like this.

The ‘what’.

The ‘how’.

The ‘why’.

Dear God, especially the ‘ _why_ ’.

He had driven her to spying. Eavesdropping. Granted those were things that she was good at. Two of the three things she was good at. What she was _paid_ to do.

She had patience, if very little. She would come to know what he was talking about eventually. He spoke to her like she had a future to contemplate. She wanted details, but asking would be foolishly playing into his hands.

So she would wait.


	4. Chapter 4

The Old Town market was almost exactly like he remembered from his last mission in Prague. Open, loud, and, even in the off season of summer, very busy.

The market stalls that lined the wide street had both exotic and native good to be sold. Clint browsed through the crowd, his eyes sharp for everything. Threats, escape routes, potential weapons, and-

The Black Widow stood across the street and six stalls down, listening to a man trying to sell her an elegant beaded necklace. Even from this distance, if not especially from this distance, Clint could see that his pitch was delivered with a flare that would have sold the necklace to anyone. Anyone that was paying attention, that is.

Clint watched her decline the man’s offer and melt into the crowd after sweeping her gaze around. Her eyes didn’t land on him, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been seen.

Regardless, she had been looking for him. Just like he knew she would. But why was she being so… sloppy? A Level 10 assassin should know how to conceal herself from anyone.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loudly spat foreign curse. The archer turned around, bringing himself face-to-face with a grizzled old woman covered in gauzy scarves.

“You plan on staring at that woman all day or are you going to talk to her?” Her English was broken, but understandable. She was obviously used to tourists. “Better yet,” she added, “you buy rug!” She pointed around the stall and Clint followed with his gaze to the multitude of colourful shag rugs hanging from the counter and ceiling.

“It’s complicated,” he told her, letting an easy smile slide onto his face. “And I don’t need a rug. No house to put it in.”

The gray-haired woman shook her head. “You take rug. Good for many things.”

The skepticism Clint shot her was genuine. “Like what?”

“Conversation starter,” the elder lady told him. “Talk of rugs is not complicated.” She shoved a three foot long rolled up rug into his arms.

Clint rolled his eyes but fished out enough money to pay for it, thinking it easier to buy the thing than argue with the woman.

_And my apartment could use a bit of colour,_ he told himself sarcastically, thinking of his SHIELD- standard living quarters back at base.

Walking away from the old woman and her rugs, Clint wondered why he couldn’t have stopped beside the knife stall across the street instead. With a scowl, he hoisted the rug up onto one of his shoulders.

_At least it hadn’t been anything completely left field,_ he mused, _l_ _ike a goat stall or something._

.:.:.:.

Over the course of the next four hours, Clint spotted the Black Widow through the crowd multiple times in various places.

First she was at the knife stall he had been admiring, paying particularly close attention to a rather sadistic-looking number with a serrated edge. Small, but obviously deadly. Somehow he wasn’t surprised.

Then he saw her again exchanging money for a sugary pastry of some sort at a baker’s stand. He briefly wondered if it was a convenience buy or if the Black Widow had a sweet tooth.

Thirty minutes after that she was tying up her hair with a strip of decorative cloth, talking with the lady selling them. She was playing the part of a tourist perfectly. But her smile was fake. It didn’t quite look genuine to someone who was as used to lying as he was.

Each time Clint saw her, the Black Widow would only take a few seconds to realize she was being watched. She would turn and cast him a defiant, daring glare before disappearing. He had half a mind to go after her, but restrained himself from doing so. He was already in the doghouse, and breaking orders again would only fuel the fire he was sure the Director was preparing to cook him in.

.:.:.:.

Twilight was fast approaching. Ducking into a run-down building that brandished a sign claiming it to be a bar, the Black Widow pulled at the scrap of cloth securing her up-do. Her movements were jerky and agitated. She scratched her fingertips against her scalp, shaking out her long blonde hair, missing its natural colour.

Turning her thoughts to the failed American assassin, she silently fumed. That arrogant jackass hadn’t made one move towards her all afternoon. She had given him plenty of opportunities to approach her, but he took none of them. She loathed to admit that curiosity was burning her insides, but it wouldn’t make it less true. And she hated herself for it.

She grumbled quietly in Russian as she stood contemplatively by the door, her skin prickling under the stares she was gaining. However, the stares were something she was used to. She could do something about them. Like leave, for example. 

Because she realized that she had to take the initiative if anything was going to get done.

.:.:.:.

The first thing Clint noticed was that an hour had gone by in which he hadn’t seen the Black Widow. Though the daylight was fading, the archer had no problem seeing as he scanned the people around him. But the assassin’s face was not one of the ones he saw.

The second thing he noticed was that the daylight _was_ fading and Coulson hadn’t called him back yet. He didn’t doubt that his handler would eventually call him back, but he wanted to act before the Black Widow decided to disappear for good. If she hadn’t already. He had to hope that either self-preservation or simple curiosity would keep her around for a little while longer.

Clint put a bit of distance between himself and the crowded marketplace, stopping in an alley a few blocks away. Crouched next to his rolled up rug, he pulled his phone out of his pocket, somewhat impatiently debating whether or not to call Coulson. He was about to put it back when the cell began to quietly ring in his hands.

He flipped it open and hit the call button before bringing the device up to his ear. “Barton,” he said curtly in way of answering the call, thinking to himself something along the lines of _finally_.

But it wasn’t his handler’s voice on the other end.

“Do you _enjoy_ messing up my plans, Barton?” came the unmistakable deep rumble of Nick Fury. “Do you think that you know better than your superiors? Than _me_?”

He wanted to say ‘Yes, he did’ because sometimes he felt that that was true. But Clint didn’t think that bit of information would help him much in his current situation. So he opted with, “Not exactly, sir. I just think this mission needs a bit more background before any action is taken. Her file was practically empty.”

The Director sighed heavily on the other end of the line. “You were sent there to take out a threat. Not to think. Your orders-”

“My orders were to neutralize a threat,” Clint interrupted. “Wouldn't this do the same thing?”

“Are you saying you refuse to carry out what you’ve been told to do?”

“I’m saying, Director, with all due respect, that I joined SHIELD to save lives. If I take her out, how will I be any better than I was before?”

A tense pause stretched between them.

“You’ll be better because your targets now have a pattern and a purpose,” Fury eventually said in a tone that implied this was over. “An extraction team is scheduled to arrive at the designated pickup point tomorrow at 0500. See that you don’t miss them.”

“Rodger,” Clint spat out through clenched teeth.

“Fury, out.”

The line went dead in his ear, but it was a few seconds before he moved. It didn’t take long for the internal struggle he was going through to come to a head. He may pay for it later, but there’d be one less name that would belong to the blood on his hands.

Clint closed his phone and stuffed it in his pocket as he made to stand up, when a gruff voice made its owner’s presence known farther behind him.

“Mluvil jsteoBlack Widow.“ ( _You spoke about the Black Widow_ )

Clint turned around. The voice belonged to one of two muscled men approaching him from the darker end of the alley. They were both glowering, ripped, and obviously spoiling for a fight.

“You spoke about the Black Widow,” the man repeated in English. The hidden threat was very obviously there.

Clint grimaced. This looked like it was going to be fun. “Very good observation,” he baited, not giving anything away. If these men worked with her, they would give him a hard time to get him off her trail. If they were hunting for her, well, he wasn’t going to help anyone kill the woman he was trying to save.

“Kašpar would rather you stay out of his business. He wants the Black Widow, and he sent us for her. There’s no room for you to interfere.” The second guy cracked his knuckles as the one who spoke fingered a pistol sticking in the waistband of his pants.

_Well,_ Clint told himself, entering the game of intimidation and revealing his gun to the men as well, _they most definitely aren’t working_ with _her._

“What does Kašpar want with the Black Widow?” he inquired.

“That’s none of your business, street filth,” the guy snapped gruffly.

“Then your use to me is done,” Clint growled.

The guy pulled his gun, but Clint was faster. A shot rang out. There was a brief moment where he wasn’t sure whose weapon had caused it, but it was over when his opponent’s pistol clattered to the ground. The man clutched his hand as blood oozed between his fingers. The situation turned chaotic from there.

The guys were taller than him, and therefore had the advantage of strength. But Clint still had his gun.

He assumed that realization must have hit them at the same moment, because the second guy leapt forward, attempting to wrestle the weapon out of his hands.

Clint brought the gun up, whacking the guy on his jaw, but not before the thug could get a punch landed squarely on his own.

That was going to leave a mark.

The guy stumbled into his partner, who pushed him away and ignored his mangled hand to take his turn in going after Clint. Except he didn’t.

The thug dove past the archer, who realized at the last minute that he was aiming for his lost pistol.

Two men ducked and rolled, attempting to stay out of the other’s way.

Two shots rang out, pistols humming as the bullets buried themselves in flesh and muscle.

Two bodies hit the ground, each emitting a pained grunt before becoming still.


	5. Chapter 5

Clint mentally checked himself over, realizing pretty quickly that he wasn’t dead.

He could stand up, at least.

Further assessment of the situation provided him with the information that both of the thugs were down for the count, each with his own bullet wound. The guy directly in front of him, the one who had had the gun, lay face-down in the dirt and Clint knew exactly how he got there. The gun in his hand was still vibrating from the force of the ejected bullet.

But the other one had a hole in his head that judging by the diameter alone didn’t come from him. So who-

“Now we’re even.”

The words behind him made him instantly react. He wiped around, gun aimed at about chest level, only to find that she was already doing the same. “Even?” he repeated.

The Black Widow narrowed her eyes. “You let me live, I let you live. Pretty even, don’t you think?”

Clint slowly lowered his gun and tucked it back in the waist band of his pants, but his adversary didn’t make any indication that she planned to so the same. “You _let_ me live?” He snorted. “Sweetheart, unless you had that gun aimed at my head yourself-”

She adjusted her aim so that she in fact did. “I could have just kept walking,” she growled before turning around and taking off without another word.

“Hey, wait-” Clint called after her. He glanced back at the two dead bodies, wondering if he should do anything about them. With a shrug he decided that it wasn’t worth it and made to follow the Black Widow.

Except as soon as he turned the corner she had, he couldn’t see her anywhere. He cursed and looked the other way, but knowing the way she went he let out a breath in frustration and started walking, his eyes scanning everywhere.

.:.:.:.

It had taken the rest of the evening and quite a decent chunk of the night, but Clint eventually tracked her down and followed her to a seedy-looking bar in some back alley of a shady-looking part of town. It was called the KroucenéKoza, which sounded cool, but it was the picture on the sign of a decapitated goat’s head that had him sold. He didnt know much about her, but the choice of establishment seemed to fit the reputation of an assassin.

At least, it looked like a place he’d pick to hide out.

Entering the joint only served to reinforce his thought. The worn wooden door felt like it was practically falling off its hinges, and when he stepped inside he could see that “seedy” was the perfect description for the place; it was dark, musty, and every single person in it looked like they could easily kill someone, no questions asked.

The door squeaked shut behind him, but no one seemed overly concerned about his entrance. Walking further in the bar, he scanned the booths around the edge, most of them full of glowering men nursing various drinks. But a booth wasn’t necessarily easy to get out of for a quick escape. Especially if one of the men slid in next to you. The Black Widow wouldn’t be dumb enough to sit in one of them.

The tables in the middle of the place weren’t much better. They were over-crowded with younger men, boisterously downing beer with loud shouts and insults. You’d be noticed simply from the glares directed at them by everyone else.

That only left one logical place; at the bar, where he saw her sitting now.

Her blonde hair was down and covering her shoulders, and her head was lowered. He could only see her back, but he could tell that her shoulders were tensed and her muscles were stiff. She was obviously less than pleased about the attention from the guy leaning against the bar on her right.

And he doubted that the guy saw the glint of the gun she held under the lip of the counter. That just wasn’t a fair fight.

“Alright bud, break it up,” Clint said, walking up to them. “She doesn’t want to talk to you.” He paused, trying to think of something to say in Czech. He really needed to take those language classes Coulson’s been nagging him to take. “Skončil jsizde,“ he settled with. ( _You’re done here_.) There were better phrases he could have used, but he figured it got his point across all the same.

The guy turned to look at him and gave him a hard stare. Clint expected a fight, but the man simply sneered and stepped down without a fight.

“v pořádku,“ he spat out. “ona je celý tvůj. děvka jako ona nestojí za můj čas tak jako tak.“ ( _fine. she's all yours. whore like her isn't worth my time anyway._ )

He stalked off, leaving Clint to sit himself on the barstool beside the blonde assassin, a cautious eye kept on her and the gun he hadn’t forgotten about.

The gun she now pressed into his side.

“Мойрыцарь в сияющих доспехах,“ the Black Widow said dryly. ( _My knight in shining armor._ )

Clint didnt understand her words, but the sarcastic tone she delivered them, not to mention the barrel of the pistol against his side, told him that they weren’t a compliment. With a sigh, Clint waved over the bartender. The assassin didn’t look like she was going anywhere. He might as well get comforitable. “Want anything?“ he asked her, trying to keep the smugness out of his tone.

Because holding him at gunpoint or not, here she was, not leaving, which meant she at least wanted to hear him out.

The Black Widow gave him a look that he couldn’t quite describe before turning to the bartender. “Budu mítvodku,“ she told him in Czech. ( _I’ll have vodka_.)

Clint chuckled as the bartender went to get their drinks. “Of course you know Czech.”

“I do my homework,” she shot back.

A strained silence fell between them then, and it didn’t lift when their drinks were set down in front of them.

Clint sipped at his beer, noticing after a while that the Black Widow didn’t touch the shot of vodka she ordered. “If you didn’t want a drink, you could have said no,” he told her.

She didn’t reply, her gaze seemingly focused on the bartop.

Clint sighed, wondering if he should just get on with explaining. But he really wanted her to ask. He had to know that she seriously wanted help. To get out. But first he figured that he had to get her talking.

He wracked his brain for some trivial topic of conversation, when it dawned on him. He huffed a laugh a bit louder than he intended, making the Black Widow jump. He froze, almost forgetting about the gun pressed against his rib cage.

“You owe me a new rug,” he said out loud when they had both settled back down.

“You-“ the assassin started, before stopping just as quickly. Clint caught the confused look that crossed her face before she was able to wipe her expression clean. “A rug?”

“Mmhm,” he hummed in affirmative. “My day wasn’t just about you, you know. I went shopping.”

She scowled. “So you bought a rug?”

Clint shrugged. “I was more conned into buying a rug.”

The Black Widow shook her head, a miniscule movement. “I don’t see why I owe you a new one.”

“That headshot you landed got blood all over it.”

The assassin actually looked at him after that. “That headshot saved your life.” There seemed to be a short stretch of hesitation, but eventually the Black Widow simultaneously removed the gun from his side and reached for her drink, downing it in one swig. “Why were those guys after you anyway?” she added.

Clint gave her a curious look. “Actually, they were after you. Some guy named Kašpar wants you pretty badly.”

Her fingers tightened around her empty shot glass. He was almost afraid she was going to break it.

“What’d you do, kick his puppy?” Clint asked when the silence began to stretch once again.

She gave him a condescending glare, but he did his best to ignore it as he sipped at his beer nonchalantly.

“Clint Barton,” she began abruptly. “How about you tell me about your “out”.”

He was surprised that she knew his name, but not completely shocked. SHIELD claimed to have gotten rid of all information of his existence but in the past two days he’s learned to not underestimate the Black Widow. No, he was more concerned about the abrupt change of subject to something she had up until now expressed her complete disinterest, not to mention the practically flirtatious tone she delivered it in. Her voice, her green eyes staring at him from under her eyelashes, the way she was leaning slightly towards him; he knew that she was good at what she did. Any man must be putty in her hands.

He had to admit that she was beautiful, but he wasn’t someone who could get caught in her web so easily. He had more experience than that.

Clint pushed his half-empty beer away, leaning on his elbows on the top of the counter. “Those bedroom eyes aren’t going to work on me,” he told her. He held her gaze and watched it turn sour.

“You got me here,” the assassin glowered at her shot glass, her voice taking on a dangerous tone as she changed tactics. “Why should I stay?”

Clint took in a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before letting it out slowly.

He opened his mouth, but drew a blank. It figures that he finally has her here and doesn’t even know how to tell her that he’s trying to save her life. But he had to phrase his pitch just right. How had Coulson sold it to him?

“The organization I work for- their main concern is protecting humanity from themselves.” She wasn’t looking at him, but he could tell she was listening simply by the fact that she hadn’t interrupted yet. “They try to neutralize threats before they become a problem. That’s where I come in. I, and other agents like me, are assigned to take out those who hurt others. That’s why I was sent to take out you.”

The Black Widow barked out a quiet, humorless laugh. “You don’t have to talk to me like I have no idea what I’m doing. I know the consequences of my actions.”

Clint leaned toward her a bit in an attempt to make her look at him. “Then why do you do it?”

“Это все что я знаю,” she sighed, refusing to look at him. “It's all that I know.”

“Why don’t you turn it into an asset?” he continued to prod, refusing to let his voice waver. Her answer hit a little too close to home.

“I’ve never been offered the chance,” she all but growled after a pause. “Anyone who wants to talk to me is usually just waiting for an opportunity to kill me.” She did look at him then, pinning him down with a piercing green eyed glare.

Clint chuckled. “It must be your shining personality that sets them off.”

The look he got from her after that was full of confusion, and maybe the beginning of a smirk, but it was gone with a shake of her head as she turned away from him and waved the bartender over. She reached into her pocket and set a handful of bronze coins on the bar, as well as a gold necklace that looked like it was worth more than a couple drinks. “dávejte pozor kdo vás uvidí se že,” she said to the man as she slid off her stool. ( _Be careful who sees you with that_.)

Clint got up and followed her out, wondering what the assassin was going to do now. He opened his mouth to ask when they stepped outside, but she answered his question before he had the chance.

“When do we leave?”

Clint checked the time on his phone, trying to appear like he wasn’t completely shocked at how easy it seemed to persuade her. “In about four hours, actually.” He began walking down the street. “If you have anything you wouldn’t like to leave behind, I’d suggest you go and grab it. Meet me at the hotel I’m staying at, the-“

“The Nocleh se Snídaní,“ she interupted smugly, making no move to go off on her own. “You’re about as good at noticing tails as you are at being one.”

“And you know more than you should,” Clint growled back.

“I do my homework,” she corrected.

After a minute of somewhat uncomfortable silence, he huffed out a quiet breath. “I never caught your name,” he said.

“That’s because I never gave it.”

He looked at her expectantly, ignoring the dismissive tone she spoke in.

“I have a lot of names,” she hedged. “Too many for you to remember.”

Clint didn’t back down. “Well, who are you right now?”

The Black Widow stopped abruptly, and Clint paused to turn around and look at her. The expression on her face was unreadable. He mentally berated himself, sure he just overstepped some boundary or something and that she was about to flee.

But instead she started to walk again, slowly. They made it a few blocks down the street in complete silence. Clint was beginning to believe that she was going to ignore his question when she spoke up.

“Natasha Romanoff.”

She didn’t look at him, instead focusing on the buildings lining the road.

“Well, Natasha,” Clint said quietly, “are you ready to become an agent of SHIELD?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the last chapter! This story's been long in the making, even though it's pretty short. But it's finally finished. Now that's not saying that I wont go back and give it a nice re-write seeing as Chapters 1 - 4 were written well over a year ago. I'd like to think my writing has improved a little bit, and I'd like to give Clint and Natasha the stories they deserve. That being said, don't think for a minute that I'm done with this universe. I have great plans ahead.

“What. The hell. _Happened._ ”

Clint hadn’t even had a chance to sit down before Fury dragged him to his office and began demanding answers.

“You had your orders, Barton. Why didn’t you _follow them_?” Fury snapped as he paced behind his desk.

Scratch that. The helicopter had barely had a chance to land.

“What’s the point of a chain of command if agents think they can do whatever the fuck they want? I might as well just throw in the towel right now.”

Clint’s jaw clenched as he explained. “There were unknown factors that-” The Director slammed his fists on his desk and leaned forward, but Clint continued, if at a slightly louder volume. “That made themselves apparent and changed the entire equation.”

“’Unknown factors’?” Fury repeated. “You had to go in there and kill the woman. What kind of ‘unknown factors’ could possibly mess up a simple order like that?”

“Maybe the fact that she’s a human being?” Clint snapped, braced for a fight.

“She’s killed a lot of people. Important people,” Fury shot back.

“So have I!” Fuming, Clint motioned in the general direction of the helipad. “But she came back with me. Willingly. Doesn’t she at least deserve a chance?”

The two men glared at each other. Clint knew that he was digging his own grave deeper with every word he spoke, but he refused to back down. Despite the hostility and mistrust Natasha has shown, or more possibly because of that, he recognized in her a shadow of what he used to be. Of what he still is. And every word that he’s said to the Director has been the truth.

\---

_“Are you sure that you don’t have anything you want to take with you?”_

_The only response that he received was a withering glare, but it was enough to get the message across._

_Clint held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Alright, fine. Just asking.”_

_“Well don’t,” Natasha growled._

_Clint sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. “This is going to be a long three hours.”_

_They were sitting in his hotel room, doing nothing but waiting as the pickup time approached slowly._

_Very slowly._

_Technically Natasha wasn’t even sitting. She had propped herself up against the wall across from the door when they had arrived and hasn’t moved since._

_Clint understood the tension and distrust. Hell, he was sitting in a chair with his back in a corner. But he had at least taken the time to wash up and relax. If only marginally, on both accounts. He itched to take a shower but wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to leave a very terrifying assassin to her own devices on the other side of a closed door._

_So they waited._

_Natasha eventually slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, loosely hugging one knee to her chest. Clint didn’t even bother to delude himself with the thought that she was relaxing. He could see that every one of her muscles were tensed, and her eyes kept flicking to the door or the window before looking back down at her feet._

_He almost suggested that she take a shower. She looked like she could use one. Besides the obvious reason of her needing something to calm down, her blonde hair was a bit of a mess, and she had makeup smudged under her eyes. But he stopped himself at the last minute, assuming that she would snap his neck for bringing her obvious exhaustion and rough state to light._

_Clint hadn’t realized that he had been staring at Natasha until her head turned toward him and he was suddenly met by a hostile green eyed glare._

_“Why don’t you take a picture,” she suggested, her smooth tone matching her expressionless face perfectly, “it’ll last longer.”_

_Clint couldn’t help but smirk, even though he could have probably cut through the tense air between them with a knife. “Only if you’ll pose naked,” he mocked, thinking only after the fact that he’d have a better chance of survival if he prodded her with a stick._

_Her eyes gained a dangerous glint, and Clint was actually worried for a moment that she was going to pull her gun on him. But then the moment passed and she shifted her gaze away from him to glance at the door once again._

_He slowly removed his hand from the pistol tucked in his waistband, realizing exactly how tightly wound the whole situation was._

_“Why did you agree to come with me?” Clint asked seriously, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Because in all honesty I expected you to shoot me in that alleyway before I had a chance to talk.”_

_Natasha turned to look at him again, and both assassins stared at the other, trying to read thoughts and expressions that had been practiced into invisibility. “Why did you try, then?” she asked._

_Clint couldn’t begin to describe the tone she used, but a thousand different answers raced through his head at the question._

You looked scared.

I saw myself when I looked at you.

I don’t want to kill anyone I don’t have to.

You’d be more useful alive than dead.

_He lowered his head into his hands and settled on a carefully emotionless, “I don’t know.”_

_“There’s your answer.”_

_Clint looked up just in time to see Natasha flash a smirk, but it was gone and replaced by her stone mask so quickly that he was sure he had imagined it. He could hear something in between her words, and he knew that they were both aware that there was something the other wasn’t saying._

_She took out her pistol and turned it over in her hands, scrutinizing the weapon like it would tell her everything she wanted to hear. “I don’t know.”_

\---

Both Clint and Fury’s heads snapped towards the door when it swung open. Coulson stepped into the office with all the caution of someone walking straight into a den of lions. He closed the door quietly behind him, his gaze shifting between his boss and his charge. The tension between them was almost palpable.

Clint turned around and strode over to the large window that made up the wall of the opposite side of the room, refusing to look at his handler. Instead his gaze was trained on the cloudy sky. One hand was gripping his bow hard enough for his knuckles to turn white, while the other was clenched into a fist just as tightly.

Questions about Natasha burned his tongue, but he didn’t let them escape.

“Sir,” he heard Coulson greet, and he knew the nod of respect his handler was giving Fury along with them. “The Black Widow is in a containment cell. Her personal items have been removed, although she claimed that we’d be better off destroying them than wasting space in storage.”

Clint felt his lips twitch into a brief smirk at the response. “Natasha,” he found himself saying before the Director could answer Coulson. He could almost physically feel their attention shift to him.

“Excuse me?” Fury inquired in what Clint liked to think of as his signature ‘you did not just fucking say that to me’ tone.

Without looking away from the window, Clint repeated, “Natasha. Her name is Natasha.”

“Oh I’m sorry,” Fury snapped, “I hadn’t realized the pair of you were such good friends. Maybe you’d like to join your new buddy. You could make friendship bracelets. Braid each other’s hair. It’ll give me time to figure out what to do with you. Because right now I have to deal with a very deadly Soviet assassin and an idiot rogue agent too stupid to not keep his damn mouth shut.”

“She’s a _human being_ ,” Clint argued, proving Fury’s words true. But he couldn’t help it. “She deserves another chance.”

“That isn’t your decision to _make_ ,” Fury barked out.

With a snarl in frustration and anger, Clint lifted his balled fist and punched the window.

\---

_“There’s our ride.”_

_The assassins were sticking to the shadows of the rundown buildings just outside of the rendezvous point. Two SHIELD agents were stepping off of the helicopter, both carrying guns and standing stiff and tall, looking for all the world like they weren’t going to take any brand of shit._

_They were nerve wracking enough, but Natasha tensed even further beside him when a third agent followed the others out. However, all Clint could feel was relief as he recognized his handler. At least there was a chance he could reason with Coulson, however slim that chance may be._

_He leaned closer to Natasha. “Alright, this might be a tad bit easier than I thought,” he explained in a low tone, “but you’re going to have to do everything I say, starting with giving me your weapons.”_

_The blonde assassin huffed out a brief, humorless laugh. “You’re expecting me to just hand over my pistol?”_

_“And whatever other weapon you’re hiding,” Clint amended. “Come on, Natasha. You can’t expect me to think you’ve lasted as long as you have, as well as you have, with only a gun on you.”_

_Natasha said nothing in response, but her glare was cold enough that it would have frozen over a good fraction of the sun had it been out._

_Clint sighed, meeting her stare with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. “If you want to back out and continue living on your own, go right ahead,” he offered, covering his seriousness with a smug tone. He didn’t want to force her into anything, but he also doubted she was going to back out now._

_A brief moment of continued silence passed, but eventually Natasha reached behind her back, pulling a pistol out of the waistband of her jeans. She visibly hesitated before giving Clint her gun, but put it in his out-stretched hand firmly before following it with a knife she had hiding in her boot, and a pair of well-worn looking, think and heavy fingerless black gloves from a pocket in her jacket._

_“Don’t play with those,” she warned him when she handed the gloves over. “I’ve heard that they hurt.”_

_Clint wasn’t sure if she was joking or not. “Follow me,” he told her, choosing to not respond to her words. “Let me do the talking.” He paused before adding, “and for god’s sake, don’t kill any of them. Coulson’s a good guy, and the other two look new.”_

_“I’ll do my best to control myself,” Natasha snapped back in response. “Let’s just get going.”_

\---

Looking back, he realized that he probably should have punched something that wasn’t missile proof glass.

“Feel better?” Fury asked sarcastically.

Clint didn’t need to look at him to know the smugness that would be settled on his face. He could hear it. “Loads,” he said dryly in reply, refusing to react to his now probably bruised hand. But he did turn around to face his handler and the Director, both of which were glaring at him, arms crossed. Coulson’s face told him that he was unamused.

“All I’m saying Director,” Clint growled out in an even tone as his hand began to throb, “is that as long as she wants to change, why are we trying to stop her?”

Fury matched his tone, the eyebrow over his good eye lifting skeptically. “How do you know she _‘wants’_ to change?”

Clint widened his eyes in comic disbelief. “I’m flattered at how skilled you think I am Director, but I wouldn’t even pretend that I could capture Natasha Romanoff and bring her in alive if she truly didn’t want to be here. She agreed to come, and she said she would cooperate.”

Coulson then turned to Fury. “He’s right. At least about her cooperating. She’s done everything we’ve asked, more or less. I’m having a hard time detecting an ulterior motive.”

Clint sighed with relief at the thought that Coulson might be on his side. But his handler wasn’t finished yet.

“However, I do believe that if we were going to integrate her into SHIELD’s ranks-” Coulson paused, like he was picking his words carefully. “We should make absolutely sure exactly what her motives are,” he eventually added.

Clint watched Fury intently as the Director leaned against his desk once again. The expression on the man’s face gave nothing away, and the archer was becoming livid at the fact that this was even a debate that was happening.

SHIELD was supposed to save lives, plain and simple. If they didn’t have to kill someone, if _he_ didn’t have to kill someone… He wouldn’t. Not unless he absolutely had to.

However, it wasn’t even just a topic of morals and right or wrong. Within two minutes of stepping off that helicopter, the Black Widow had every single junior agent practically wetting their pants. Even some of the seasoned ones were on edge. And that was when she was unarmed and in handcuffs.

SHIELD could use that to their advantage. As an assassin and a spy, Natasha Romanoff was good.

But all Fury saw was a threat. He didn’t see the person behind it.

“Okay.”

“Director, I really think you should-” Clint had been ready for another round of arguments. Fury’s words had caught him off guard. “Wait. What?”

Even Coulson looked surprised.

Fury straightened up before sitting in his chair, somehow managing to make the movement look intimidating. “You heard me, Agent Barton. Okay. We’ll give her a try.” He pulled out a data pad. “Effective immediately, she will be debriefed and sent to the reeducation center.” The Director began accessing files on the data pad, moving things around and entering information. “Depending on how she does determines what the next step would be. If everything goes smoothly, she will have to spend some time at the Academy. But if you are correct, there shouldn’t be any problems. Right, Barton?”

Clint was momentarily shocked into silence. There was no way it was that easy.

“Of course,” Fury continued, “there are conditions.”

“Of course,” Clint echoed with a weary sigh. Nothing was ever that easy.

The Director pinned him with a glare. “Don’t worry, there’s only two.” His tone was drenched in sarcasm. It only served to make Clint worry more. “One,” Fury began, “if she ever does become an agent, she will be on a probation of sorts. At least to start out with. Coulson, you will be in charge of her. That includes daily reports.”

“Yes, sir,” Coulson nodded. The glare he shot Clint and the tone of his voice said that there would be repercussions.

Fury’s eye was still on Clint, goading him into speaking.

“The second condition, sir?” the archer asked through clenched teeth, never one to disappoint.

Fury’s smile was far too innocent. “The second condition is that when she becomes an agent, the pair of you will be assigned as partners.”

Coulson and Clint both stared at the Director in shock. It was the archer who found his voice first.

“But that’s-,” he began indignantly.

Fury interrupted him. “You saw it fit to bring her in. You must see some potential in her. And you two are already great at working together to get on my last nerve.”

Coulson stepped forward, giving Clint a hard glare before looking at Fury. “Do you think that is such a good idea, sir?” He inquired skeptically. “Barton has a loose concept of ‘rules’ on his own. To add in the Black Widow?”

The Director leaned back and rested his elbows on the chair arms. “I think it’s the only way this situation will work.”

Trying not to lose his temper completely, Clint tried again. “I work alone.”

Fury’s grin turned wicked at his words, even as his gaze hardened in a way that said the debate was over and his word was final. “Not anymore.”


End file.
